Quel ouvrage a-t-il fait? Sa Genéalogie!”
The prior was one of the deputies of the Etats-Généraux, and made himself conspicuous for his mild, persuasive eloquence. One day Mirabeau, perceiving the effect of his discourse, cried out: Méfiez-vous de ce petit serpent: il vous séduira! After being in exile twice he was, at the Restoration, made a duke and peer of France.
How dear St. Orens’ memory still is in the diocese he once governed we well know who have spent several years of our life there. How joyous is the 1st of May, on which his festival falls! His relics are exposed at the priory, a procession, with lights and music, gathers around the place where his shrine once stood, and at night bonfires are lit on the other side of the Gers and the people dance in the open air.
But to return to the pastoral valleys of the Lavedan. Out of Argelés you pass into the valley of Azun, one of the least known, but one of the most picturesque in the Pyrenees. It is high up among the mountains and divided by the deep and turbulent Gave.[[132]] The entrance was once defended by the castle of Vieuzac, the ruins of which remain, associated with the memory of the too famous Barère. The valley is inhabited by people of primitive manners with few artificial distinctions. Here every year, at Carnival time, is to be seen the peculiar dance of the country called the Ballade, performed by the young men, who often assemble from different villages in short vests gaily adorned with ribbons, with the most efficient balladeur at their head, playing on the fife and tambourine and waving their flags. The tambourine of the Pyrenees is a primitive instrument of pine wood, as simple as the lyre of Apollo, and with the same number of strings, which the performer beats with a little rod. These dancers are escorted to the edge of their villages by young girls, who welcome them at their return and lavish praises on those who have distinguished themselves. They are presented with eggs, ham, and butter in all the villages they pass through, on which they feast the following day.
Among the curious old usages of this valley, before 1793, was the tribute of butter to the shrine of St. Bertrand of Comminges, a popular saint in the Pyrenees, where he labored in the eleventh century. The people of Azun were then almost out of the bounds of civilization, and for what religious instruction they had they were chiefly indebted to the holy hermits of the neighboring mountains. It is said that when St. Bertrand came to preach among these rough mountaineers, he was treated with so much indignity that the tail of his mule was cut off, for which the land was cursed with sterility for several years. Touched by the repentance and sad condition of the inhabitants, the saint, by his prayers, obtained the cessation of their punishment, and they, in their gratitude, promised to give him henceforth all the butter made the week before Whitsuntide. This vow was kept for nearly seven centuries. A canon and two prebends from St. Bertrand’s came every year to the valley in acknowledgment of this tribute, bringing with them water that had been passed through the saint’s pastoral staff while chanting some orison in his honor. This they gave to the people as a remedy for disease among cattle. These deputies never failed to pass before the house, which is still standing, where St. Bertrand had been so disrespectfully treated. The master stood in the door and humbly prayed them to enter and partake of the refreshments he had prepared, which they did with emotion, like angels of peace and reconciliation.
At the farther end of the valley of Azun, not far from the Spanish frontier, rise the dome and square tower of Notre Dame de Pouey-la-Hun, that stands on an isolated peak overlooking the village of Arrens, between the two roads that lead to Spain and the province of Béarn. The present edifice is comparatively modern, but its foundation is so remote as to be lost in obscurity. You enter by a fine porch supported by four marble pillars, and are at once surprised at the richness of the interior. The walls are brown and gold, and the pillars, carvings, statues, and the very mouldings of the blue arches are all gilded, producing a most brilliant effect. Around the nave are two galleries, one above the other, for the men, who are generally separated from the women in the churches of Bigorre; at least, in the villages. The pavement is the unhewn granite cliff, which is worn quite smooth by the feet of so many generations of worshippers. It descends like an amphitheatre, enabling every one to see the altar distinctly. Across it is a groove, worn by a mountain stream at certain seasons of the year. All the joys and sorrows of the valley are brought to the feet of Notre Dame de Pouey-la-Hun, and numerous pilgrimages are made here at certain seasons of the year.
In 1793 orders came to destroy this venerated chapel, but when the emissaries entered it they were saluted by mysterious voices among the arches, as if reproaching them for their blasphemies and imprecations, and, terrified by the unearthly sounds, they at once made their escape. There was nothing supernatural in this, however. It was a mere stratagem on the part of the peasants to save their beloved chapel, and they boast of it to this day.
During the troubles with Spain this chapel was used as a military post, and consequently much injured. As soon as it was no longer needed for this purpose the government again decided to demolish it and sell the materials. The people became excited, and the women assailed with stones the agents sent to examine the building, who fled for their lives. Then a pious widow, to save it from further profanation, bought it for about fifteen thousand francs, which was nearly all she had, and, when she died, bequeathed it to her nephew, a priest, till better days should arrive. Time and neglect were beginning to leave their traces on the chapel when Queen Hortense came to the Pyrenees. She had just lost her son, the Prince Royal of Holland, and the wild, melancholy grandeur of these mountain valleys harmonized with her sadness. She was particularly pleased with the quaint village of Arrens and its picturesque chapel, and made a sketch of the landscape herself. The devotion of the people to the Virgin of Pouey-la-Hun touched her, and she sympathized in their wish it should be reopened for public worship. She went there to offer her vows, and founded an anniversary Mass for her son, which was to be celebrated with all possible solemnity, as recorded by the authorities of the place. This was shortly before the birth of Louis Napoleon. She never forgot her visit to Pouey-la-Hun. She alludes to it in her travels, and excited the interest of the government in its neglected condition. In 1836 it was made over to the Bishop of Tarbes, who founded a seminary here under the care of missionaries from Garaison, who have rendered it one of the most popular chapels in the Pyrenees.
But to return to the basin of Argelés. The valley of Cauterets begins at Pierrefitte. A carriage-road has been hewn along the steep mountain side on the very edge of a precipice, three or four hundred feet deep, at the bottom of which rushes a fierce torrent that breaks into foam over the sharp rocks that encumber its bed. On each side of this gulf rise steep cliffs almost perpendicularly, down which dash here and there miniature cascades, all in a foam. A bend in the river enables you to look back through the gorge over the wild Gave, the waters of which are of the color of beryl. Nothing could be more delicate than the tint of the foam. Beyond the bold arch of the bridge at Pierrefitte can be seen the fair vale of Argelés, forming a lovely picture framed by the lofty palisades of this wild pass. We left the carriage and wandered on afoot, gathering the eglantine and other wild flowers, inhaling the delicious mountain air, and drinking the cool waters of its numerous streams. By moonlight the scene is particularly sublime. The gloom of this narrow gorge shut in by the lofty mountains, the deep shades of the forests that cover them, and the abyss below, with the ceaseless rush of the mad stream, produce a profound impression on the mind. We remember driving through it on one occasion at midnight. The full moon hung over the mountains of Gavarnie, its light streaming down here and there into the gorge with mysterious, enchanting effect. Before us was the peak of Péguère, like an enormous pyramid with one tremulous star above, its summit bathed in the soft radiance, while its furrowed sides and unfathomable gulfs were veiled with a thousand shadows. As you wind up the Côte du Limaçon, the whole Gave is beaten into spray among the huge rocks. Here the lateral mountains recede somewhat, and you shortly come to the triangular valley of Cauterets, completely shut in among majestic mountains. Its springs were well known to the Romans, and some pretend that Cæsar himself visited them. It is more certain that the kings of Aragon and Navarre did, as well as the ancient lords of Bigorre and Béarn. The little town is more sumptuous now than when under the rule of the abbot of St. Savin. Wooden cabins have been replaced by marble edifices, and the artificial appliances of modern times substituted for the primitive observances of St. Orens. But one gives a sigh now and then for the good old simple days when the lord abbot, to prevent all imposition on the stranger and the poor, forbade the sale of provisions except on the public square. The wine, too, which had to be of good quality, could only be sold a liard more on a pint than at St. Savin, and if false measure was given a fine of ten crowns was imposed on the vender, one-half of which went to the poor and the rest to the abbot.
Cauterets is a very agreeable residence in the season. Here you meet strangers from all parts of the world, and there is a certain charm in the unrestrained intercourse. At certain hours, of course, every one goes to partake of the waters and to bathe. There are pleasant walks along the banks of the Gave, and fatiguing ones up the steep mountain sides. At table you have trout from the river and game from the forests, fowl and vegetables from Argelés, apples and plums from St. Savin’s, peaches from Béarn, and berries of rare flavor from the mountains. Buried in this quiet valley, away from all human agitations, in daily communication with nature, that puts on here its fairest aspect, the invalid returns to a simple, inartificial life which produces more effect than the waters. Rousseau thought no violent agitation whatever, no vapors of the mind, could long resist such a place of residence, and he was astonished that the salutary air of the mountains was not numbered among the chief remedies of medical and moral science.